CHAPTER 17
GROOVER
WHAT DO YOU call it when twenty-something millionaires with more muscles than common sense congregate in a luxury high-rise with enough alcohol to sink a battleship?
A post-game victory party at Riley Becker's apartment, apparently.
And I'm here for it, riding the high of our 4-2 win against Detroit, with Mateo pressed against my side on a leather sectional that probably cost more than a semester of his tuition. He's nursing the same beer he's had for the past hour, playing it safe while my teammates cycle through increasingly stupid drinking games around us.
"Never have I ever fucked in a penalty box!" Wall shouts over the pulsing music, causing half the room to drink, including Captain Washington, who makes intense eye contact with his wife Leila across the table.
"Jesus, get a room," Becker groans, throwing a balled-up napkin at them. "Some of us are trying to forget our parents have sex, not be reminded our captain does."
Mateo leans closer to whisper in my ear, "Is this what all hockey parties are like? Just increasingly filthy confessions and alcohol?"
His breath tickles my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning and everything to do with how long it's been since our almost-kiss outside his apartment. Five days, seventeen hours, and roughly twenty-three minutes, not that I'm counting.
"Pretty much," I confirm, hyper-aware of his thigh against mine. "Except usually there's someone naked in the pool by now. Becker must be losing his touch."
Mateo laughs, the sound warming me more effectively than the expensive whiskey I've been sipping. I shouldn't be noticing things like this—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair falls across his forehead when he tilts his head, the faint coffee-and-cinnamon scent that clings to him even after hours at a hockey game.
But I am noticing. I'm noticing everything.
"Attention, degenerates and significant others!" Becker stands on his absurdly expensive coffee table, drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of his glass. "Never Have I Ever has gotten stale, and I, for one, am not drunk enough yet. So we're switching to Truth or Dare."
A chorus of groans and cheers meets this announcement.
"What are we, sixteen?" Ace complains from his position on the floor, head resting in Devon's lap.
"Mentally? Yes, obviously," Becker confirms without hesitation. "Now, who's first? Truth or dare?"
The game progresses exactly as you'd expect when you combine professional athletes, alcohol, and the maturity level of high school sophomores. Wall admits to puking in the Stanley Cup during his rookie year. Ace is dared to text our head coach a shirtless selfie (he does, God help us). Petrov reveals he's afraid of butterflies, which earns him an entirely new nickname on the spot.
Mateo watches it all with anthropological fascination, like we're some primitive tribe performing ritual bonding ceremonies. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely inaccurate.
"Groover!" Becker points at me, swaying slightly. "Truth or dare?"
I consider my options. Truth means invasive questions about my love life, probably aimed at embarrassing both me and Mateo. Dare means physical humiliation, but at least it will be over quickly.
"Dare," I decide, bracing for whatever idiocy is coming my way.
Becker's face splits into a grin that makes me instantly regret my choice. "I dare you and Mateo to make out. Thirty seconds, with tongue, or it doesn't count."
Fuck. I should have seen this coming a mile away.
I glance at Mateo, ready to shut this down if he looks even slightly hesitant. But instead, I find his eyes already on me, his expression unreadable save for the slight flush creeping up his neck.
"You don't have to—" I start quietly.
"It's fine," he interrupts, setting his beer down on the side table. "It's just a game, right?"
Just a game. Right. Except there's nothing "just" about the way my heart is suddenly trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest.
"Thirty seconds!" Becker announces, holding up his phone timer like he's about to officiate the Olympic fucking Games. "And I'll be watching to make sure there's proper tongue action. No cheating!"
"You're a pervert, Becker," I inform him, but he just wiggles his eyebrows in response.
The room has gone quiet, all eyes on us. Mateo shifts to face me, his knee bumping mine. "Ready?" he asks, so softly only I can hear.
Ready? I've been ready since I walked him home from the library. Since our interrupted almost-kiss. Since that first practice session on my couch that turned into something else entirely.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Three, two, one... Go!" Becker hits the timer with a flourish.
I lean in, one hand coming up to cup Mateo's jaw, our lips meeting in what I intend to be a careful, controlled kiss. Something performative enough to satisfy the dare but restrained enough not to make things weird.
That plan lasts approximately half a second.
The moment our mouths connect, something electric sparks between us. Mateo makes a small, surprised sound in the back of his throat, his lips parting against mine. And then—holy shit—his tongue is tracing the seam of my lips, tentative but eager, and my brain short-circuits like someone dumped a bucket of water on the control panel.
I slide my hand from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as I deepen the kiss. He tastes like the craft beer he's been nursing and something sweeter, uniquely him. His hand finds my shoulder, gripping tight like he needs an anchor.
Dimly, I'm aware of wolf whistles and catcalls from around the room, but they're background noise, irrelevant compared to the thundering of my pulse and the soft, urgent press of Mateo's mouth against mine.
This isn't like our practice kiss. That was exploration, hesitant and curious. This is hunger, barely contained. His other hand lands on my thigh, fingers digging in slightly, and I have to physically restrain myself from pulling him into my lap.
"Ten seconds left!" Becker announces, and I realize with a jolt that we've been kissing for twenty seconds already. It felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough.
Mateo pulls back slightly, his eyes opening to meet mine, pupils blown wide. For a moment, we just stare at each other, breathing hard. Then, as if driven by the same impulse, we surge forward again, meeting in the middle with renewed urgency.
His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I can't quite suppress the groan that escapes me. My hand slides down his back, pulling him closer, propriety be damned.
"Time!" Becker announces with way too much enthusiasm. "Though I gotta say, you two didn't need the full thirty seconds to make the point. Get a room, why don't you?"
Mateo breaks away first, leaning back just enough to put space between us but not so far that my hand falls from his waist. His cheeks are flushed, lips slightly swollen, and I've never seen anything more gorgeous in my life.
"Happy now?" I ask Becker, my voice embarrassingly rough.
"Ecstatic," he confirms with a shit-eating grin. "Moving on! Ace, truth or dare?"
The game continues around us, but I barely register it. Mateo and I remain side by side, not quite looking at each other, but not moving apart either. My hand has migrated to rest on his knee, and he hasn't pushed it away.
Every few minutes, I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye, quickly looking away when I notice. The tension between us has ratcheted up to nearly unbearable levels. If this were a hockey game, we'd be headed for sudden death overtime.
After what feels like years but is probably only half an hour, Mateo leans in close again. "Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?"
My heart skips several beats. "Yeah. Of course."
We extract ourselves from the sectional, muttering excuses about getting fresh drinks. Nobody buys it—the knowing looks from my teammates could power a small city—but no one calls us out either.
I lead Mateo down the hallway to the relative quiet of Becker's balcony. The April night is just warm enough, the Chicago skyline a tapestry of lights stretching in every direction. We stand side by side at the railing, close enough that our arms brush.
"So," I start eloquently.
"So," he echoes, staring out at the city.
Real compelling conversation we've got going here. Shakespeare would be proud.
"About what happened in there..." I try again.
"It was just for the dare, right?" Mateo says quickly, finally turning to look at me. "Part of the act?"
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with possibility. I could agree. Could play it safe, maintain the professional distance that's becoming increasingly hard to remember we're supposed to have.
But the memory of his mouth on mine, eager and demanding, makes lying impossible.
"No," I admit quietly. "Not for me, it wasn't."
He exhales slowly, relief and something like wonder crossing his face. "Not for me either."
We stare at each other, the admission crackling in the air between us.
"I've been thinking about kissing you again since that night outside your apartment," I confess. "Actually, since the first time on my couch. Hell, probably since you showed up at my hotel room door with that ridiculous opening line."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Are you my boyfriend, then?"
I burst out laughing, but the sound dies down in my throat as quickly as it appeared when his smile gets replaced by something more serious. "But this... this wasn't part of our agreement, Groover."
"I know." I take a step closer, emboldened by the fact that he doesn't back away. "We can amend the terms. Or ignore them entirely. No pressure."
He looks down at his hands, then back up at me, uncertainty written across his features. "I’m… I’m new at this. Frankly, I have no idea what I’m doing."
"I know that too," I assure him, resisting the urge to reach for him. "We can go at your pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."
"And if I want to explore this?" he asks, so quietly I almost miss it over the distant sounds of the city. "Without strings or expectations?"
My heart does a complicated gymnastic routine in my chest. "Then we explore it. Together."
"No strings," he repeats, though it sounds more like he's convincing himself than me. "Just... figuring things out."
"Just figuring things out," I agree, though everything in me rebels against the casualness of the phrase. Because there's nothing casual about the way I feel when he looks at me, nothing simple about the electricity that sparks between us when we touch.
But I'll take what he's offering. Because the alternative—not touching him at all—is suddenly unthinkable.
"Can I kiss you again?" I ask, voice dropping lower. "Not for an audience this time."
He nods, and I step into his space, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. This kiss is different from the one inside—slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. His hands find my waist, holding me steady as we explore each other's mouths with newfound permission.
I walk him backward until his shoulders hit the wall beside the balcony door, crowding him in, giving him the solid support I can sense he wants. He makes a soft sound of approval, his hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders.
I don't hold back this time.
I let him feel exactly how much I want him, pressing him against the wall with my full body, one thigh slipping between his legs. His gasp is swallowed by my mouth, his hips tilting forward instinctively.
"Still okay?" I murmur against his lips.
"Very okay," he breathes, pulling me back in with surprising strength.
We lose track of time, learning each other through touch and taste. At some point, his hands find their way under the hem of my shirt, palm flat against the small of my back, finger tips tracing the ridges of my spine. I shudder at the contact, my own hands tangled in his hair, angling his head to deepen the kiss further.
It's only when the balcony door slides open that we break apart, both breathing hard.
"Whoops," Becker says, not sounding remotely apologetic. "Don't mind me, just looking for—oh wait, there it is." He grabs a bottle of tequila from a side table, giving us an exaggerated wink. "Carry on, gentlemen. Might want to lock the door though. Devon was looking for the bathroom and this would be an awkward detour."
He slides the door shut behind him, leaving us alone again.
Mateo drops his forehead to my shoulder, a laugh shaking through him. "Your teammates are the worst."
"The absolute worst," I agree, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Want to get out of here?"
He lifts his head, eyes searching mine. "And go where?"
"My place?" I suggest, then quickly add, "Just to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want. No expectations."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Talking might be overrated at this point."
"It's definitely overrated," I confirm, stealing another quick kiss.
Because I can now, apparently.
And isn’t that something?